


Home

by temperamental_mistress



Series: Pas de Trois [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Home, Homecoming, Homesickness, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: Joly returns to Marseille for his sister’s wedding. Musichetta visits her parents on the other side of Paris. Bossuet stays behind. Each finds an unexpected truth about the meaning of home.
Relationships: Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: Pas de Trois [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190888
Comments: 14
Kudos: 5
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2020)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akallabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akallabeth/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Akallabeth! May the coming year be filled with joy, peace, and sweet homecomings. <3

Joly fidgeted with his hat as he waited for his trunk to be loaded onto the diligence. The grey skies were threatening rain, and he was eager to be on his way. He had not been home to Marseille in nearly two years. Normally, it would be impossible to justify so much time away from his studies, especially after all the hard work it had taken to get him to Paris in the first place. Adèle was to be married, however, and the journey could not be avoided. 

The news had brought him a host of worries. Would he be able to afford the long trip south? How long should he stay? Would he fall behind in his studies if he were away too long? He put off packing for as long as possible, delaying the decision.

“Go,” Musichetta had urged, plying him with a bouquet of gentle kisses to soothe his nerves. 

Bossuet had hidden all his school books while he was distracted in this way, “With all your L’s, you shall be there and back in no time, Jolllly.” 

“But,” he had tried to protest,” it will be nearly a month, and-” the rest of his arguments had been stifled with sweet caresses and common sense. His studies could wait. Musichetta and Bossuet could take care of themselves and each other while he was gone. His family was expecting him home, and would worry if he did not return. The matter was settled, and his trunk had been packed (and repacked thrice over) by the following morning. 

Still, as he stood waiting for the last pieces of luggage to be secured, he could not ignore the gnawing sensation in his gut. While he was excited to be returning home, the idea of leaving Paris, even temporarily, filled him with anxiety. He knew, of course, that it was natural to be nervous about leaving a familiar place for an unfamiliar one. But Marseille was _home_ . Though he had not been there for two years, he could still picture the streets around his parents’ house perfectly, could almost feel the _mistrau_ threatening to knock him from his feet. Paris, meanwhile, was still new. He had his favorite cafés, and could navigate well enough, but there were still many parts of the city that remained a mystery to him. And he would go back to Marseille when his studies were completed. 

...wouldn’t he? A seed of doubt planted itself firmly in his heart, but Joly brushed the thought away as he boarded the coach. To dwell on the idea would only make him ill. 

* * *

As the omnibus rattled along the street, Musichetta watched Paris pass her by and let her thoughts meander. She was excited to see her mother. Beholden to the schedules of two separate opera companies, it was rare that they had the opportunity to spend time together. Her father traveled between them as often as he could, and managed never to miss a premiere, but he was never able to linger for long. By chance, the stars had aligned to allow for a fortnight-long reunion in Paris. 

Still, she had hesitated when her father’s letter had arrived. She hated to leave Bossuet by himself, particularly while Joly was away. Despite his many assurances that he would be fine in her absence, she had heard a note of loneliness beneath his puns and laughter. 

“You could come with me,” Musichetta had proposed, but knew even as she said it that he would refuse. As it was, she still had no idea how to explain Joly and Bossuet to her parents. 

“No, one opera star is enough for me, thank you. I’ll have dinner with Courfeyrac and the others every night,” Bossuet said, “and we shall be so caught up in our work that I won’t even notice you’re gone.” He was quick to clarify with a kiss and a clumsy waltz around the room that this did not mean he would not miss her.

“I’ll only be on the other side of the city,” she reminded him as he held her in a precarious dip. “Promise you’ll send for me if you need me?” Dutifully, he had promised, and sent her on her way. 

Musichetta set aside her worries over Bossuet for the moment, and let the familiar excitement of visiting an unfamiliar place fill her chest. That was the beautiful thing about going home: the thrill of settling into a new place and learning everything there was to know about the surrounding neighborhood. She had known no fixed abode for most of her childhood, instead following her parents from one stage to the next, first across Italy, and then France. 

Paris had been her home for the longest time, but even here she was forever moving from one place to another. First with the Opera Ballet School, then in various apartments around the city once she joined the corps, and now with Joly and Bossuet. Her heart ached at the thought that one day she would leave the cozy life she shared with her boys for another new place. A home did not last forever, after all, no matter how she wished it might. For now, at least, she chose not to dwell on it. 

* * *

Bossuet alighted from the omnibus a short walk from Joly’s lodgings, but the usual spring was absent from his step. The rooms would be empty and quiet, as they had been for a week. 

He had been separated from Joly and Musichetta before, of course. When rehearsals intensified just before the premiere of a new opera, Musichetta would be gone for days at a time, and Joly had a well-established habit of staying with Combeferre prior to exams. It was only as he stepped over the dark threshold that Bossuet realized this was the first time he had been separated from them both at the same time since they had come together. 

He did not begrudge them their trips home. Joly’s homesickness for Marseille stalked him like a cat, creeping up close whenever he least expected it. Some time in the south would do him immeasurable good, Bossuet was certain. Musichetta and her parents were only ever able to see each other when fate intervened and aligned their busy schedules, as they had this spring. It was simply bad luck that these trips had come about simultaneously. 

He could go back to Meaux, he supposed, but there was nothing there for him now. His parents were long gone, the house and fields lost shortly thereafter. He had lived a transient life for several years, borrowing space from friends when his funds did not permit him lodgings of his own. He had no home to return to. How then, he wondered, could he be struck by such homesickness as he felt now? It felt strange to long for something that held no strong memories for him. 

Bossuet wandered the empty rooms aimlessly, giving in to the inexplicable urge to touch the many objects that normally filled his days: Musichetta’s favorite blue hair ribbons, the spare blanket on the end of the bed, the stack of books Joly had packed and unpacked twice before deciding not to bring them home to Marseille, the scorch mark beneath the candle on the windowsill. The absence of his two companions somehow made the familiar space feel foreign. 

Perhaps, he thought, he should have gone with Musichetta after all. With a sigh, he picked up a book from Joly’s stack and tried not to dwell on their absence. 


	2. Chapter 2

Joly knocked quietly on the open door of the library, drawing Adèle’s attention away from the window, “May I join you?” 

She smiled, and shifted to make space for him on the sofa. The familiar gesture filled his chest with the warmth of fond childhood memories. How many hours had they passed together in this room, chittering away like songbirds or sharing silence as they devoured books? The sofa had seemed larger then, when Adèle’s skirts had been fewer, and he had not yet needed his cane, but Joly could not deny the comfort he found in sitting shoulder to shoulder with his sister. As if no time at all had passed, they reached for their respective books and read in silence. 

Joly’s focus wavered. He could not name what it was that made his mind to wander. The small volume he held was one he had been meaning to read for months, on Musichetta’s recommendation, but his studies left him with little time for pleasure reading. He turned to the window, where a passing rain shower drummed a quiet rhythm against the glass, and wondered if Bossuet would remember to close the windows before going out. 

“I am glad you were able to come home,” Adèle broke the silence some minutes later, and Joly realized that she had stopped reading, too. 

“You’re to be married, Adèle. Nothing could have kept me away.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Not even your studies? Or a lecture on magnetism?”

“Mere temptations,” he laughed. “You will only be married once, God willing. My studies will still be there for me when I return home.” He paused, brow furrowing at this slip of his tongue. Paris was where he lived currently, yes, but it wasn’t home. Marseille was home. He rubbed the end of his nose with his cane, and chewed on the strangeness that sat heavy in his mouth. Could he still call this place home when he had been away for so long? 

“Are you nervous?” he asked, when the silence had gone on for too long, wondering if his sister was similarly torn. 

“About marrying?” Adèle shook her head, and the joy that crossed her features was contagious. “Guillaume is a good man. It is difficult not to love him.” 

“I have no doubt of that. He seems a fine match for you.” Every letter from his parents had indicated that his sister’s fiancé was a kind and generous man. If anything, it seemed that Adèle had found in Guillaume what he had found in Bossuet and Musichetta. “I meant about leaving home.” 

She pondered this for a long moment, smoothing a wrinkle from her skirt, “It will be strange, of course, to live somewhere new. But I do not think it will be any stranger than when you left to study at the lycée.” 

The situations were hardly comparable, he thought. “I was only on the other side of the city.” 

“And I am only going to Avignon,” she insisted. Joly felt his chest tighten as she took his hand in hers. As ever, she had seen straight through his anxieties to what was truly worrying him, “This will always be our home, Théodore, but that does not mean we must remain here all our lives. Guillaume and I will make a new home together in Avignon, as you have made one for yourself in Paris. Think how fortunate we are, that we shall have more than one place to call home.”

Joly considered his sister’s words as seriously as he did his studies. Could someone really have more than one home? Once he might have denied the idea, but now he was less certain. Marseille was where he had been born and raised, the very definition of home, and yet his lodgings in Paris were beginning to feel less temporary as time went on. 

“Papa and Maman will always be glad to welcome you home, Théodore,” Adèle said, holding his gaze firmly. “But there is no shame in finding your own place in this world.”   
  


* * *

Though the weather was damp and chilly, Musichetta’s parents were not to be deterred from lunch at her mother’s favorite café. The conversation danced seamlessly from French to Italian and back again, a musical accompaniment to their meal.

“What a joy to come home to two stars of the stage!” her father declared, raising a glass in toast.

“Says the man whose name is still spoken with reverence in the corps,” Musichetta laughed. 

“Nonsense. I am a relic of stages past.”

Her mother shook her head, “The world does not forget a name like Frédéric Miramond that easily, _amore mio_ . You are still known at _La Scala_ , as well.” 

“Only for my relation to you, my dear.” He turned his attention to Musichetta, “How are you getting along, Marguerite? That new choreographer isn’t pushing you too hard?” 

She shook her head, “M. Taglioni is strict, but I think it is to our benefit. You remember how enchanted the audience was last season.” 

“What a spectacle that was,” her father laughed. “And what of that gentleman you were seeing? M. Joly, was it?” 

Her mother paused, glass halfway to her lips, “ _Signor_ Lesgle, I had thought.” 

Musichetta took a long sip of wine to compose herself, “You are both correct.” Her parents exchanged a look, but she did not falter. “They are no secret to each other, by any means. We are all of us happy together.” 

For a moment, there was only silence as her parents digested this revelation. Her father’s brow furrowed deeply. Musichetta found herself tongue-tied, trying to think of anything else she could say to ease the discomfort. Then, her mother set down her fork decisively. 

“I spent my childhood traveling, always moving from one stage to the next,” she said, her expression overcome by nostalgia. “I knew I wanted more stability for you. We had hoped that studying with the Opera Ballet would give you that chance. But a stage makes a poor home. The theater is always changing, as well you know. People come and go, directors change their minds. I am glad you have found these gentlemen.” 

“Caterina-” her father started, but her mother continued without so much as a glance.

“They have helped you find a home here in Paris. It is not what your father and I expected it to look like, but if you are happy then we shall not argue.” 

Musichetta looked to her father for affirmation as she considered her mother’s words. She spoke of home as if it were something fixed, as if she could simply choose to stay forever, rather than resign herself to finding a new home every few years. Could it really be so simple? 

“Your mother is right,” her father said at last. His eyes, so much like her own, softened as she met his gaze, and he nodded.

* * *

Bossuet swirled the wine in his glass absently, listening partly to Courfeyrac regaling the table with tales of his latest misadventures with a mistress, but more to the steady drum of rain against the windows. He wondered if the weather in Marseille was as dreary as in Paris. It would be a shame if the wedding were spoiled by such a storm. The rain picked up, as if spurred on by these thoughts. 

Prouvaire elbowed him gently when his attention drifted too far, “You are quiet this evening. Are you well, my friend?” 

He smiled, “Well enough. Even after two weeks, I cannot seem to adjust to how quiet Joly’s rooms are with both him and Musichetta away.” 

“I can imagine!” Courfeyrac said, refilling Prouvaire’s empty glass. “You must be homesick all on your own.” 

“How can I be homesick if I have no home?” Bossuet asked sincerely. 

“Of course you have a home, every man does.”

“So you say, but I have neither family nor lands to visit. How, then, can I return home?” 

“A home is one’s native land,” Enjolras said, setting down his fork. “In France you have a home, and in the brotherhood of men, a family.”

Bossuet drained his glass thoughtfully, “A very patriotic definition, but I do not know if it is quite the same thing as what Joly has in Marseille, or Musichetta with her parents."

The next answer was equally poetic, “What is a home but a place for an eagle to rest his wings?” 

“That’s a nest, Prouvaire.” 

“Appropriate for L’aigle, I should think!” the poet pointed out, “Isaiah would agree: a nest, like a home, is a peaceful dwelling, a secure home in an undisturbed place.[1]"

“Then his nest must be a cozy home indeed, for it has both an eagle and Jolllly’s four _ailes_ ,” said Courfeyrac. 

The laughter that followed was a balm to Bossuet’s soul after so many nights without Joly and Musichetta. Soon, he found himself deep in discussion about the merits of nests, compared to those of a fox’s den, or a bee’s hive. Enjolras favored the communal nature of the hive, while Prouvaire continued to defend the nest as the ideal home. Bossuet thought the den might be a better choice, for there was less chance that he would fall if he were already on the ground.

“You know,” Courfeyrac said, when the meal was finished, “you say that you have no home Bossuet, but I stand by what I said before. I do not think a home is something that can be lost. A home is all the places and people that a man loves, where he feels the most like himself, where he feels safe. Those are not things that can be given or taken away.”

“Perhaps I am homesick after all,” Bossuet said, after a long moment to consider. “Only it seems I have the poor luck to have been left behind by my home, rather than having left mine behind.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Isaiah 32:18


	3. Chapter 3

Three days after the wedding, when Joly and his parents had seen Adèle safely settled into her new home in Avignon, he knew it was time to return to Paris. Leaving the south was bittersweet, but his studies awaited him, and he was eager to rejoin Bossuet and Musichetta after nearly a month apart. 

He embraced his father and mother with more confidence than he had on his first departure for Paris two years prior, “I promise to come home for another visit soon.” He knew he would not have the excuse of a wedding to pull him away from his studies again, but he was sure he would think of something. His new brother-in-law clasped his hand and wished him well, promising for the third time that morning that he would take good care of his sister. 

Much as she had the previous time, Adèle took Joly’s face in her hands and kissed her brother’s brow like a benediction. “Safe journey home to you, Théodore. Give my best to Musichetta and Bossuet, won’t you?” 

To hear her call Paris his home filled Joly with a rush of unexpected euphoria. It was not the home he had always known, but one he had made for himself. It had taken some time to adjust to the idea that both places could be home, but he found himself growing fonder of the notion by the day. He did not have to give one up to embrace the other. 

He smiled, “I shall.” 

With that, Joly boarded the diligence, his heart lighter than he had expected. It did not carry him further from home - simply from one home to another. He felt more complete with every moment he grew closer to Paris. 

* * *

Musichetta’s heart swelled with delight as the omnibus rattled its way through the city streets. Her parents had departed for Milan that morning, after many farewells and an exchange of performance schedules. It was the longest they had all been together in more than a year, and it was difficult to know when they could meet again, but these were the lives they had chosen for themselves. 

The knowledge that Bossuet would be waiting for her, that Joly would soon join them, almost made her want to leap from the carriage and run the rest of the way back. If not for the weight of her skirts and the bag at her side, her heart was so light she thought she might even be able to fly. 

To return somewhere was a strange experience. Her entire childhood had been spent traveling to new places, following her parents from one stage to the next. This felt entirely different. It wasn’t the thrill of someplace new, but the comfort and joy of someplace familiar. The anticipation was greater than any opening night.

_ Soon _ , she thought. Soon she would be home. 

* * *

Bossuet woke with a start and picked his head up from the windowsill. He had not planned on napping, but the spring sunshine had lulled him to sleep. He realized, belatedly, that it was the strange muffled thumping from the street below that had roused him. Curious, he pulled open the window to peer down. 

To his utter delight, the source of the noise was a familiar figure with red-brown hair struggling to drag a trunk up the front steps while managing a cane. Bossuet gripped the sill and leaned his head out the window. 

“Joly!” 

The cry came from further down the street before Bossuet could draw breath to call out. Musichetta came flying toward Joly and swept him up into a spinning embrace. The cane went flying, the trunk crashed down the steps, and laughter rang out like bells. 

“What’s the cause for all this celebration?” Bossuet called, grinning. “I appear to have lost my invitation.”

Two faces turned immediately upward, brighter than the sun. Joly cupped his hands around his mouth, “A long overdue homecoming!”

“What’s keeping you?” Musichetta asked, “Come and join us!”

Bossuet was down the stairs and out the door faster than the last time he’d run from a mistress’s chambers. He felt every ounce of tension leave his body as the pair embraced him, laughing. Contentment and a sense of security flooded his senses, and finally felt certain that Courfeyrac was right - this was not something that could be lost or taken away. 

He buried his face in Joly’s hair and twined his fingers with Musichetta, “Welcome home.”


End file.
